


Paint It Black

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baby's First Fanfic, Canon Compliant, Episode: s10e16 Paint It Black, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Paint it Black, Season 10 Spoilers, artist!Cas, blood trigger warning, it gets used as paint, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the quote Dean gives at the end of the episode where he's indignant that none of the women he's ever been in a relationship with - I use the term lightly, but he did not - haven't used his blood in a painting of him. As if that were a normal thing that non-insane people (not to mention one night stands) did on a regular basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paint it Creepy

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is cracky, second is poetic, and I might do a second part of the series that's an AU but we'll have to see

"Bodily fluids aren't really my scene, Cas so you're gonna have to elaborate."

"Dean I only need a few drops of you blood. If you would just-," the angel held out a shallow, gold bowl.

"This is friggin creepy man! You're gonna have to tell me why before I give you any. And no funny business! You're an angel, you need my consent!"

"That would only apply were I trying to possess you as a vessel. Why won't you just let me-"

"No way! You can do all sorts of crazy shit with someone's blood. I let a drop go and the next thing I know, I'm in a blood bond or being hunted by vampires, or-or,"

"Dean." The angel looked condescending and almost a little offended.

"Cas." Dean wasn't going to cave on this one, "Why can't you use Sam's?"

"Sam's blood would do me no good in this case; it must be yours." He looked so steadfast, so sure that Dean was the only one who could help, like-

Dean wasn't going to cave.  
He wasn't.  
It wasn't going to happen.

"Cas just tell me what you want it for! I'm happy to help you out, man but you gotta tell me what I'm doing. I can't go into this blind."

"It doesn't matter all that-"

"If it isn't such a big deal then just tell me!"

"I can't today, but I will tell you tomorrow. That I promise."

"Cas, I -"

"I need the blood first. I'm not putting you in any sort of direct harm and you will appreciate the outcome."

"'Appreciate the outcome?' What does that even mean?"

"Do you trust me?" Dean paused at the question, "Well, yes, but-"

"Just give him the damn blood, Dean!" Sam yelled from the other room. Cas held out the gold dish again with raised eyebrows and an expectant expression. Dean narrowed his eyebrows and grit his teeth.

"Fine!"  
He hated when they ganged up and made him cave.  
He rolled up his sleeve, whipped out a knife, made a quick cut that dripped over the plate for barely three seconds before it was over and the angel was flying off with - was that a smile?

 

************************************************

 

Dean could barely sleep that night. He wondered if it was because Cas had lost his blood and now he had a curse on him. What if his blood was on the black market? What if some witch was using it in a ritual this very minute? What if he was never going to sleep again? What if he died from lack of sleep? What if-   
He yawned and scrubbed his hands over his face. This was ridiculous.  
Cas had his blood.  
_Cas._  
It was fine.

He rolled onto his stomach and shoved his arms under his pillow to scrunch it up because dammit he was going to sleep or die trying ...

 

************************************************

 

Dean pulled the covers up over his head when he heard his brother's voice down the hall. Well he was awake, which meant he'd gotten to sleep and then not died. That was something, he supposed. He brought himself to get out of bed upon realizing that the other voice was Cas's.  
He was about to get some explanations out of his best friend.

"Cas?" He walked into the hallway tying his robe.

"In the kitchen," Sam called.

"You," Dean pointed to the angel as he made his way over to the coffee pot, "are about to give me some answers. Now." He poured a large cup in preparation for whatever Cas was about to lay on him.

"I'm gonna ... get started on some, uh, research," Sam said as he made his way out of the room. Dean sipped on his steaming cup and looked expectantly at Cas. 

"So?"

"I'm trying to determine a way to preface this."

"Cas, just get to the point."

"Then I can show you." He walked out of the room and it took Dean a minute to realize that meant Cas wanted him to follow. He set down the mug but quickly trotted after Cas and up the stairs into the library where there was... an easel. A covered easel. Not what he was expecting.

"Cas, I want you to be honest with me. Did you trade my blood for a famous piece of art?"  
Cas rolled his eyes and Sam made a scoffing noise from behind his book.

"I used it," he began to remove the red covering, "to make this."

The picture was incredibly lifelike. The colors all went so well together and were so rich too. A deep almost, black background on the edges blended into a red closer to the portrait at the center of -

"Me?"

And hold on, did Cas say he  _made_  this? He. Made  **this**. A near to life portrait of one Dean Winchester, head focused on an unseen object, shirt sleeve rolled up, on the day that - no, it couldn't be.

"Was this from right after I crawled out of my grave?"   
Sam sounded like he was choking on his tea but Dean couldn't tear his eyes from the picture to check on him. Well, except to glance at Cas.

"You're eyes were a particularly lovely shade of green that morning -" Dean did **not** blush "-And it went so well with the pink of handprint and the accent of the burgundy background. Your blood only needed slight alteration in color to achieve both. Mixing colors is surprisingly harder than it sounds."

"I'm sorry, did you say my blood?"

"Yes, as I said; I used your blood to make this."

"What the hell Cas!?"

"You expressed a desire for such a painting the other evening on the way back from the hunt in Massachusetts." Dean looked affronted, "You were eavesdropping?! While we were in Baby?! She's sacred ground man! You can't do that!" Before Cas could respond - he'd already landed, but he figured that revealing his presence would defeat the purpose of his surprise -, Dean continued, "But dude! This is so not what I meant. This is fucking scary! Using my blood? Are you kidding?! I thought you were doing a fucking ritual with it! I thought I was gonna wake up cursed! I mean, getting a painting like this from a lover is one thing but from your best friend, it's-it's-"

"The love I bear for you is much stronger than the love that the painter held for his muse."

You could have heard a gnat breathing in the silence that followed that statement. Sam didn't dare make a move. He'd been waiting for this moment for too long, and he knew that Dean had been waiting even longer. Cas had probably been waiting since he found Dean in Hell. 

"What?" Dean whispered.

"I love you more than the painter loved his muse. ... And more than she loved him for that matter."

"Cas," Dean cleared his throat but was still whispering, "Cas, that's-that's different than ... their love, it's-"

"Do not presume to know my love for you, Dean Winchester."

The pause was shorter this time, but no less meaningful.

"You love me?"

"Yes." 

Sam wished more than anything that he could teleport out of the room like an angel but you couldn't have paid him to leave once he saw the look of awe and shock on his brother's face. And then Dean stepped forward on light feet as if he were floating across the ground to gently grab the lapels of that stupid trench coat and tug Cas into a kiss. 

 

************************************************

 

Dean felt weird about keeping the painting in his room (Sam knew that it would be "their" room any day now and didn't know why either of them pretended otherwise). So instead they put it up in the room Cas "used" whenever he stayed over. 

Dean didn't know what Cas had used the first time, but one of their first dates was to pick out supplies from a real art supply store for Cas to keep in his room at the bunker (which was yes, going unused for anything but storage and hanging the first painting in). They got an easel, a palate, brushes, canvases, a whole rainbow of colors, and every interesting tool Cas pointed out which he thought he could use.

 

Dean asked him to keep painting.  
And he did.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Paint it Poetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's POV while painting the portrait

The green of his eyes was easy enough. He’d stared at them for what amounted to days at this point. All it took was deciding on a particular day – the right moment to catch the desired green (once he’d decided on green that is). He’d fought long and hard for a good five minutes over the generic color he wanted: dark brown? emerald? copper? tawny-gold? hazel?

The moment he’d drawn from his memory captured two nearly apple-green irises. He worked in watercolor (after, of course, detailed and extensive research on several viable mediums). Watercolor, though, would work best with the blood he’d be using for the red.

An odd choice for a gift, Castiel thought, but he could see the sentiment buried somewhere in the gesture. A part of the inspiration was captured not only in the image but in what the image was constituted of; preserving the muse in both the mind’s eye and on a secret, physical level.

The blood would foremost be put into the handprint scar marking the hunter’s shoulder. What was left after would go towards the red of the background he would be using to sharply contrast the green of his eyes and shirt.

It wasn’t hard to start and he had the basic outlines and colors down in minutes. But as he began to add in the minutiae, there arose a concern.

He could see the care with which he was creating this. It worried him to some degree. If not Dean, then Sam certainly would pick up on it. And if Dean happened to find the reverent detail Castiel had painted with, what then? How would the hunter react? Or would he pretend he didn’t see it – that it wasn’t there or didn’t mean anything.

Cas tried to work his way through these thoughts by shading the contours of Dean’s arm.

He found painting the varying hues of the green shirt meditative in a monotonous way as he settled and steeled himself for the several most likely reactions.

Down stroke.  
If Dean saw into the painting but refused to acknowledge it or reacted in an otherwise passively negative manner, Castiel would assert himself.  
More white- it needs more white.  
He would call the hunter out. Say that he knew Dean was pushing him away and acting offended because he could see how much effort Cas had put into making it. And that really, when your best friend put forth such effort, it was incredibly rude and wholly unnecessary in this case particularly to react the way that Dean was reacting.  
No, not there, a bit to the left – yes.  
If Dean became angry … Cas was unsure as to what he would do. After years of knowing the hunter, he doubted that anger would be the course of his emotions – highly doubted. But all the same, that’s what made Cas fear the possibility. Though often short-tempered, Dean had only gotten angry – well and truly pissed off – a handful of times in his adult life and Castiel was loathe to be cause for another addition to that short list of instances.   
Maybe some blue for the dark patch.  
It would be … irreparable. Or at least it would feel that way. Dean could lash out for a number of reasons. Castiel’s feelings could affront him. Cas knew exactly what he was doing – the nature of the gift and the context in which Dean had “wished” for it were not lost on him. Dean could be afraid of how their relationship would change or the fact that Cas had surprised him with the gesture. Anger would be a safe course of action – Dean could come back and apologize once he’d come to terms with it, but what damaging things would he say in the moment? And how would Castiel be able to discern the truth from words spoken in fear?  
Yellow – riiiight _there_.  
Would he want to tell the difference?  
How many buttons had that shirt had?  
Dean could be angry at him for bringing it to him at all. For wasting his blood in such a manner. For copying a slimy Renaissance painter’s MO. For making Dean the “girl” in the situation – although Dean had essentially done that himself when he’d asked for the portrait.  
Maybe put that button a little lower.  
Eavesdropping. That was the most realistic thing to be afraid of being reprimanded for.  
There should be more dust on the sleeve.  
He could explain it all away.  
Where was the tan?  
Surprises are supposed to be surprises.  
The dust had had more dirt mixed in hadn’t it?  
And he’d never gotten the chance to try out his pie-porn-jerky-booze-groceryrun apology combo thanks to Metatron.  
The green on the outermost parts of the shirt should be lighter to give it a glowing effect.  
If Dean were receptive of the gift – that would almost be more than Cas could imagine.  
But the glow should be subtle.  
Well, openly receptive that is. He could imagine that Dean might accept it out of politeness – ‘Oh the awkward, dorky angel made me a picture, how adorable, let me go put it on the fridge so he doesn’t get his feelings hurt.’ It would be very likely, even, that Dean would be put off momentarily but thank Castiel for the gesture and then walk away, leaving it untouched in the spot where Castiel presented it to him.  
The glow would extend to his hair – not unlike a halo. But he’d need more yellow for that.  
That response he could work with.  
Yes, more yellow.  
…  
Maybe white.  
…  
He was avoiding thinking of what he would do if Dean responded in such a manner. Reluctant but receptive. Castiel would have opened an opportunity for himself. One he would have to painstakingly try to recapture if he did not seize it when – if – it happened this time around.  
Too much white. Back to yellow.  
Cas would have to catch Dean before he walked away from the point of presentation, or could change the subject. This would take thinking.  
That looked finished.  
…  
Did he want to do anything with this opportunity?

…

He moved on to the background. A vibrant red close to the body became progressively darker as it expanded outward – ombre, he’d heard the term somewhere but was unsure if it applied in this situation as well – until it was almost black in the corners. After so many rituals and battles, it only made him slightly uncomfortable to be using the hunter’s blood in such a way. The blood actually made quite a nice basis for the background colors as a whole. It gave him a starting point.

The way that the painting would.

A starting point for what, was the question.

A few last touches – a few more moments to gather his thoughts.

He would play it by ear.  
Because after all, years later, they were still making it up as they went.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any discrepancies with the opening/convenience store scenes from Lazarus rising. My internet wasn't working (still barely functioning now) while I was typing this so I just used my memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Exits are to your left, your right, and rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.


End file.
